


Forced

by PurpleStarsGoFar



Series: Oneshots [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, DreamSMP - Freeform, Emotional Hurt, Gen, GeorgeNotFound Angst, Hurt No Comfort, One Shot, Self-Esteem Issues, dream team, georgenotfound - Freeform, implied mental health issues, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29414460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleStarsGoFar/pseuds/PurpleStarsGoFar
Summary: George has a journal. George wants to make sure everything he puts in it looks good! George doesn't know if this is good enough though.---AKA GeorgeNotFound angst that is a oneshot that i genuinely cannot get myself to read over and edit so you all get a mess bc I feel bad for only updating one fic.
Series: Oneshots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164782
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Forced

Forced.

If George was to describe his 'journal' in one word, and one word only. It would be forced.

None of the words seem right, instead they're filled with ornate filler, made to make it sound smart and cool when in reality it means nothing.

Half of the senseless rambles written in the leather coated book gave up on seeming holier-than-thou about halfway through, either not being finished at all or going into more basic styles of text. He felt terrible when that happened, feeling as if the inanimate object deserved to look nice, deserved to have the tales written inside of it be interesting. Even if nobody would see the contents of it, the hypothetical of someone doing so constantly crossed his mind.

And so he wanted to look nice for this hypothetical person, trying his best not to outright lie about things while still keeping it interesting. The grip on the pen in his hand hurt sometimes, stuck in his thoughts.

George normally saw himself as some form of greatness. He liked to believe that he was better than someone, if not in looks, than in smarts, if not in smarts, then in personality, if not in personality, than in morals, (in no particular order of course).

But when asked to think about himself entirely, he faltered. He'd much rather go off of the opinions of the few people around him. He doesn't focus on himself, so he cannot answer something about himself while feeling honest.

'Are you feeling stressed right now?' Becomes a question. What does stress mean? It certainly isn't the same for everyone, what is stressful for the lady at the coffee shop down the road could be calming for the farmer outside of town.

Then that becomes a question of if all forms of stress are valid. He knows that they all are. But he cannot even tell if he's stressed in the first place, so then his stress mustn't be valid, because it doesn't exist.

But if someone is asking he would have to be showing the signs of stress. So he will obsess over that. He will ask what made them think that. Then after they tell him he will focus on his actions, if he does those actions again, he will know that he is stressed!

But he could still be wrong, misleading himself. Maybe he was subconsciously thinking about the time that he was stressed according to that one person who he cannot even remember the face of and then his brain remembered the things they told him that made them think he was stressed so he mimicked them without realizing and now he's sitting, stuck in his own brain, reality fogged over as he looks at the other people in the room discreetly.

Does he dare ask for help? No. If he is wrong about this it will be humiliating. They might even call him a liar, berate him for mislabeling his own emotions and make him possibly feel even worse.

If someone notices that he is acting off, though, then they would be the ones to start the interaction. The blame would not be pinned on him, instead them. He would have to show small messages through his movements, but at the point that he realizes this, it is time to go somewhere else and he completely forgets the sentences that swarmed his brain, only left with.

'I was upset because I was unable to do something.'

And then he supposed to write his day down in a book, pick apart bits of memory and piece them together to make a coherent story of a part of his life.

He asks his brain. "What did I do today?"

And in response he gets multiple things, but they are all useless for this task to be done properly.

'I was upset because I was unable to do something.'

'I can't remember.'

'I ate something for lunch, it wasn't remarkable. I can remember it partially, but I don't care to write about something boring in here.'

'I can't remember anything other than sitting down.'

'I smiled once today, I wonder if it looked nice.'

'Why can't I fucking remember?!'

And he focuses on the ones about memory. Because he knows its right. He wants to know why he can't remember things that had happened just today. Obviously other people can remember, they say things that they could only say if they did remember.

Then what is wrong with him?

He would love to know, and the more he falls into his thoughts on the matter, he realizes that he cannot understand the concept of time. It does exist, yes, but he can't understand it.

Hours are sometimes so long and so short. Each day feels stuck and contained in its own bubble, in a box. The journal infront of him feels like it contains lies, almost. But he knows that they have to be somewhat true, he wrote them.

He tries to read the words on the page, but he gets stuck, focused on rewriting a sentence multiple times.

'The crisp summer air had been calming against my face, I-'

He kept reading it. Did he misspell? No, he had checked that before. But he might have. So he reads it again, and again, and again. Something pulls at him, something just feels off about it all.

Once he finally breaks free of the repetition, he feels disgusting for stopping, but frustrated that it happened. He doesn't even want to read anymore, afraid that it will happen again.

But he has to write! He has to write about the day he remembers nothing of!

So he fills it the best he can, forcing the words out onto the page in a moment of desperate stress, guessing what happened in his day based off of what normal people do. Ink fills the page in half-truths. Falsifying his own history just so he can get it over with.

And he does.

And then he goes to bed, begging his brain to forget this day ever happened.

But his brain doesn't forget the moments where he breaks down like that. No.

They're the only memories that work consistently.


End file.
